A little child rests on a bed of pain,
With an aching head and a throbbing brain;
A feverish flush on the soft cheek lies,
And a wistful look in the sweet blue eyes,
As the sick child moans: "How the slow hours creep!
Will the Lord not send to His little one sleep?"
And the mother smoothed from the child's brow fair
The clustering locks of her golden hair,
And murmured: "My darling, we cannot tell;
But we know that the Father doth all things well;
And we know that never a creature in pain
Addressed a prayer to His mercy in vain.
Time has no line that His hand may not smooth;
Life has no grief that His love cannot soothe;
And the fevered brow shall have rest at last.
In the healing shade from the Death-Cross cast.
Look up, my precious one; why shouldst thou weep?
The Lord giveth aye to His loved ones sleep."
And the little one gazed with a glad surprise
In the loving depths of those patient eyes,
Then lifted her lips for one long embrace.
And turned with a smile on her weary face.
And the mother smiled as the early morn
Marked the deep peace on the childish form,
And cried aloud in her thankfulness deep:
"The dear Lord be praised, who hath given her sleep!"
Ay, mother — she sleeps, in that charmed repose,
That shall waken no more to earth's pains and woes.
For the Saviour hath gathered His lamb to His breast.
Where never life's storms shall her peace molest.
His dear love willed not that time should trace
One sorrowful line on that innocent face;
Others, less favoured, might suffer their share
Of the midnight toil and the noontide glare;
Others might labour, others might weep,
But "the Lord giveth aye to His loved ones sleep."
